


La Virgen and Two Juan Diegos

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Domestic, Dominant/Top Dean, Kitchen Sex, M/M, POV Third Person, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third installment to the Chicago Verse. Please read the previous two parts for this to make sense. The boys settle down, years after S8, in a small Chicago neighborhood. Some of their neighbors take to them easier than others. Warnings in place for Wincest, explicit sexual language, and third party accidental voyeurism.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Virgen and Two Juan Diegos

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really happy with this verse! This installment was tricky because of the Spanish. It gets awkward putting footnotes or translations in the text itself, so I'll trust y'all to Google anything that you don't understand. Here are a couple though:
> 
> abuelita: affectionate way of saying grandma
> 
> guergo/gringo: slang for white American man
> 
> el rubio: rubio means blonde, so she's referring to Dean as the Blonde One
> 
> mija: slang, term of endearment, like little daughter
> 
> "Si va me voy": "Yes, I'm going now"
> 
> Thank you! Any feedback or comments would be great. I was hesitant adding in OFCs but I came to really like them.

Mrs. Martinez is too nice.

She gives boxes of beaten up Tupperware stuffed with chile rellenos and enchiladas and arroz to the white men that just moved into the old Hernandez place without batting an eye. She hurries past and clucks that the shorter one returned every single piece of Tupperware, washed and dried, with all the lids!

“A man who can keep all the lids is one worth keeping,” she says to no one in particular and puts them all away, reaching up to her cupboards. Mrs. Martinez is tiny and wide and dark brown from many summers in the sun. She is the block’s reigning abuelita; she takes care of everyone as much as she can. But those white men? How are they block family?

“Marina, how long are you going to refuse to say hello to our neighbors?” Damn, Mrs. Martinez has noticed. Well, of course she’s noticed.

“Forever if you’re trying to set me up with one of them,” Marina replies curtly. She tries to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt.

Mrs. Martinez laughs and takes out Tupperware from the fridge, piling it on a counter. “No, mija, they are a couple.”

“You think all gringos who live together without a woman around are gay, abuelita.”

“Well,” she sniffs, “these two are different.”

“I think they’re more white people moving here for the cheap rent.”

“So? They eat all the tomatoes I give them.”

“They could afford to buy their own tomatoes. And pay more rent. And then the whole block’s rent will go up and then none of _us_ will be able to live here.”

At this point, Mrs. Martinez has two plastic bags (she keeps at least a hundred under the sink, folded in little triangles) filled with more Tupperware. “Mija, you should say hi. Go over there and take them this. Tell el rubio that the mole can’t be microwaved but lo de mas can. Go.”

“I can’t. I’m late for class.”

 

 

Sometimes Mrs. Martinez isn’t too nice, which is how Marina ends up standing at the front door of the two mysterious white men. Marina has seen them around, this is her block, and she works part time at the café the taller one goes to every day. She’s never fixed his drink but she knows he tips two dollars—one for each of the people on staff at a time.

If they’re another pair of hipsters here for the cheap rent and free food, Marina is going to tell them they should be ashamed of themselves. They probably make forty grand a year—each—and here they are, eating the leftovers of an abuelita who scrapes to feed the block as often as she can.

Marina waits, the bags getting heavy now, but if they don’t answer in the next ten seconds she’s taking the food back to Mrs. Martinez.

“Dean! The door!”

“Sam, I’m… fuck it.”

El rubio answers the door with a basket of laundry in his arms. He doesn’t look happy to see her, but he quickly plasters on a smile. “Uh, hi. Can I help you?”

She shoves the bags towards him. “Mrs. Martinez said to give you these.” That’s all she wants to say. That’s all she wants out of this. She has to be on the pink line to the Loop for her night class in ten minutes and she can’t be late again.

“Oh. Shit. I mean. Would you mind?” He kicks the door open wider to let Marina in as he balances the laundry basket. He turns and looks behind him to see if she’s following. She’s not. She’s not going to enter the home of strange men, even if they have Mrs. Martinez’s blessing. An awkward moment of silence passes but he gets the picture and hurries off to put the basket down. He comes back and takes the bags from her.

“Don’t microwave the mole, guero,” is all she says before turning around and running down the sidewalk. When she looks back for a second, he’s still in the doorway, holding the bags, looking confused.

 

 

It’s always her and Anthony on Wednesday nights. Anthony works the bar and she does the grill. They take turns on the register, but since it’s closer to the bar, Anthony ends up doing it most of the time. The large red coffee cup that is their tip jar usually has at least ten dollars in it by the end of the Wednesday night shift.

The owners are two Latina lesbians who have lived in the neighborhood for years. They like hosting queer events in the café, even if it’s a small space. Most of the folks who attend the events are used to small spaces anyway.

Tonight, however, is dead. Marina’s only had to make three arepas and two sandwiches. She pulls out her textbook and starts to study, taking notes as she goes. Anthony lets her for half an hour, and then gently suggests that some of the tables need wiping. Marina cleans each empty table carefully, and on her way takes the empty plates of the few people in the café. Some are using the wifi and on their laptops, others are writing in notebooks and planners. Two ladies are talking softly in Spanish, one arepa between them.

Someone enters the shop when Marina is finishing cleaning up the closed off space in the back of the café. She deposits her pickups and rags in their appropriate places, washes her hands, and waits for an order from Anthony.

“You just ate.”

“Stop it.”

“I was there. I saw you eat. I saw you jam four tacos in your mouth at once.”

“Dean!”

“Four tacos, Tony. Four.”

Anthony’s laughter floats into the kitchen. Marina pokes her head to see who it is that is making her usually somber coworker laugh.

“It wasn’t four.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” Anthony replies with a chuckle. “I am glad you still have room to eat here. What can we make you?”

Marina disappears into the kitchen before anyone can see her. They don’t usually order food when she’s worked. Maribel chats on about how the tall one usually gets a veggie sandwich and a latte, but that’s the day shift. If he comes in during the night shift he only gets something to drink. And he’s never come here with el rubio.

“Marina, two chicken arepas. One pasta salad, please.” Anthony leaves the order slip on the counter for her. He always writes out the orders, never in shorthand, and always in neat handwriting. She’s putting together things and hears him make two drinks. One she’s sure is an iced coffee and the other sounds like a café con leche. But it could be a hot chocolate.

“Up, Anthony,” she announces and places plates on a tray for him.

“Would you?” he asks and puts the finished drinks on the tray. “I have a line now.”

Sure enough, there are two people waiting for Anthony at the register. Marina wants to protest—what are they doing eating here when Mrs. Martinez’s food sits in their fridge?—but this is Anthony.

She nods, he smiles, and she picks up the tray and goes over. El rubio recognizes her first.

“Hey, it’s you,” he blurts out and sits up straighter in his chair. “Sam.” He nudges the other with a foot under the table they’re sharing. Papers are scattered around the table.

Before either of them can speak, Marina has their plates and drinks down. “Anything else, let Anthony know,” she says sharply and turns away. She hears an order for a quesadilla.

“Wait,” the other one calls out. “Miss?”

“Yes? What?” Marina stops and faces him head on.

He stands up and puts on this smile. No. No. She doesn’t want to think it’s a kind smile. She doesn’t want to think it’s a smile that looks good on him. She thinks it’s definitely a smile he’s _used_ before. And it’s going to try and work her over.

“My partner isn’t that great at saying thank you, or at doing introductions for that matter,” he says in a tone she’s familiar with. He’s trying not to scare her away. “And I’d—we’d—really like to thank you for bringing over Mrs. Martinez’s food.”

“Esta bien,” is all that tumbles out of her mouth.

“Marina?” Anthony calls out, looking at her from the bar. “Orders.”

She turns away and goes back to the kitchen, where Anthony steps in for a moment. “Everything okay?”

She nods. The rest of the night passes by slowly and she doesn’t finish studying.

 

 

The semester ends so her schedule changes. Maribel wants to take a night class over the summer, while her kids are at a camp in the North Side. So Monica switches them and adds more hours to Marina’s weekly schedules. She’s grateful for the money and because it’s busy during the summer so the days go by quickly.

Every week she stops by Mrs. Martinez’s house. She drops off pasteles and jars of Nescafe for her. One evening, el rubio is there, sitting on a milk crate on her back porch.

“He got sun burns,” Mrs. Martinez chuckles. “Just like one of my boys.”

Something dark in Marina wants to say that he is _not_ like one of her boys.

“Doing…?”

“Helping me, mija, what else?”

She gets the story from Mrs. Martinez as they put together a salve in the kitchen. El rubio stays outside on the porch, under a flimsy umbrella Marina keeps meaning to replace for Mrs. Martinez. “He came over to help me weed the garden. We stayed out there and I lost track of time.”

“What did you talk about?” Marina isn’t sure why she’s asking. She just finds it difficult to picture conversation between someone like el rubio and Mrs. Martinez that goes on for more than ten minutes.

“Not much,” she replies with a shrug. “He likes working for Federico.”

“He works at the garage?”

“You didn’t know? I thought everyone knew,” Mrs. Martinez laughs. “Ya, this is done. Are you leaving?”

Marina bites on her bottom lip. She wanted to spend the evening here. There are a few things Mrs. Martinez could probably use help with around the house.

“Si, ya me voy.”

 

 

The very next day, what she doesn’t want to happen, happens.

El rubio comes in and orders an extra-large iced coffee.

“The biggest is large,” Marina manages to say in something that isn’t completely a grumble.

His brows furrow together and his mouth opens up in a little O. “Uh…Tony usually just…”

“It says on the menu.” It does say that. They only have extra-large cold cups for tea, which is cheaper than the iced coffee. It makes people buy two larges instead of one extra-large.

“This isn’t for me, it’s for… fine. Fine. Just give me a large, please.” El rubio pays in cash—crinkly dollar bills—and whips out a cell phone. She’s waiting for him to bitch about the lack of extra-large to the taller one.

“Sammy, would you please just calm down? Jesus Christ. You’ll be okay. Just five minutes, I’ll be there. Yeah, yeah I got it. No, I won’t spit in it, asshole. Okay. Yeah. No. Get off the phone!” When he hangs up, Marina places the drink on the counter. He shoves a hand back into the front pocket of his worn in jeans and takes out a dollar, slaps it next to the drink. He’s out of the shop without another word between them, a worried look wrinkling his face.

Marina steps outside, half a minute later, and sees his car turn the corner.

Sunlight warms her as she watches the black, shiny car ease onto the main street, hurried towards its destination.

 

El rubio doesn’t stop in anymore, but the taller one does. Every other day he’s in the café. Most days he orders iced coffee but sometimes he’ll order an iced herbal tea. And Maribel was right—always with a veggie sandwich. He spends about five dollars on his meal, carefully counting out change, and tips two dollars every time. One for the barista and one for the cook on shift.

Today is a rare day because Monica is in. She’s installing new art and the taller one has offered to help.

“I would buy all of these if I could,” he says with laughter.

“Honey, if I could buy all the art that came through here, my house would be made out of canvas,” Monica responds and hands him a hammer. “Don’t mess up my walls, eh?”

“Nah, been taught how not to.”

Marina watches him from the bar. Anthony is the cook today, an odd switch but he asked and she couldn’t say no. She has her textbook out; Monica doesn’t mind because everything is done and it’s before their lunch rush. When the tall one stretches for a moment, his shirt rides up and there is a scar on his back. A long, twisting, winding scar stitched up incorrectly but healed over.

He looks over and catches her staring.

“Marina, wipe the tables, please,” Monica requests in a tone a little sharper than usual. Marina quickly closes her book and slides off the bar stool she’d been perched on. Grabbing the rag and bucket she starts from the inside out of the café. No one’s here but them and it makes her uncomfortable. She wishes she hadn’t switched duties with Anthony.

“Do you like art, Sam?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, it’s not really my _thing_ but I picked up a few things over the years.”

“Does your partner like art, too?”

He snorts and hops off the ladder Monica had provided him with, though it doesn’t seem like he needed it as much. “Dean? Like art? You might as well suggest he never eat steak again. But… he tries. You know. So I don’t strangle him in his sleep.”

“My partner is like that,” Monica offers. “She doesn’t understand why we need another painting when we just bought this one.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Sometimes it feels like we have very little in common.”

“No, I get it. I do. He wants to stay in and marathon Star Wars with a beer and I want to… well, anything but that.”

“Ah, yes, the old Friday night argument.”

“It’s more like an every night argument.”

“Sounds like he just wants to be spoiled.”

“You might be right.” He picks up his messenger bag and quickly ties his hair back with a rubber band from his wrist. “Glad I could help you set these up, they look great.”

Monica stands back, hands on her hips, look at all the pieces and nods. “Funny how they didn’t make sense on the ground but now they do.”

The tall one looks at Marina and they lock eyes again. Marina scolds herself for blushing and looking away first. “Story of my life, Monica. Well, I’ve got to get on out. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“Can I get you something, Sam? A coffee to go?”

“Oh, no thank you. I had one earlier and if I keep it up I’ll never sleep.”

“Okay. Have a good day Sam.”

“You too.”

He leaves and Monica looks over at Marina, who freezes. She eyes her up and down, for what seems like forever.

“Cleaning the tables is very interesting work,” Monica remarks before walking to the office and shutting the door.

Marina can feel her heart squeeze.

 

 

It’s by accident that it happens.

Mrs. Martinez asks her—out of nowhere, again—to take over Tupperware for her boys. Now they are _her_ boys. Like if any other abuelita tried to claim them they would have to answer to all five feet of her.

And yet again Marina fails to come up with a solid reason why she can’t deliver the two plastic bags. Short of walking out of Mrs. Martinez’s house—which is definitely not an option if she ever wants to be spoken by the block family ever again—there’s nothing she can say or do to get out of it.

Once again, she’s standing at their front door. She imagines herself as la Virgen appearing before Juan Diego. Maybe she could command these gringos to build a church for Mrs. Martinez, for all the trouble she goes through to not only make them food, but to separate it. She keeps the salsa verde separate from the enchiladas so the tortillas don’t get soggy. It’s an extra step. Marina doesn’t know why she cares so much. Why she thinks gringos would judge her for soggy enchiladas.

Sunlight is heavy and buttery, making her sweat even though today she has on a light cotton dress. The cold food in her arms isn’t helping. She’s already rung their doorbell twice.

For a moment, as if the street knows, everything is quiet. There is no sound of children playing, cars breaking or accelerating, or the jingle of bells from the push carts. There’s not even leftover sound from the Vicente Fernandez cassettes Mrs. Martinez had on earlier. All other sound is scraped from the street and put in the trash, making everything quiet and still.

The only sounds she hears come from inside this house because one window was left open. All others are shut but this one living room window. Any person on the sidewalk might not hear this, but Marina can.

At first it’s so soft she doubts herself. Must be a television or a radio or something.

But then she hears a name.

“Dean.”

And then she hears a command.

“Harder.”

And then she hears the product of that command. Skin slapping on skin and the production of low groans from two people. Underneath those sounds the scraping of a table can be heard.

“Gonna…gonna break the table…”

“Shut up about the fucking table, Sammy.”

“But…”

“How can you complain about the table when I’m balls deep in your ass? God. Shut _up_.”

“Uhn, it’s… it’s a legitimate… concern…oh, oh, _fuck_ …”

The sound of a firm smack resonates through the humid air. “No. _No_. You’re gonna come just like this. Yeah, just like this. Come on my dick, Sam. C’mon baby boy, come on my dick.”

“Dean,” is desperately gasped out. “Please, please, please.”

“I’ll get you there, Sammy. Shit. So god damned tight. Hold… hold on.”

The street comes back to life and car horn blares. Mr. Munoz passes by with his pushcart, selling elotes, calling out: “Dos por tres.”

She misses some words but she hears the finish.

“Dean, I thought I heard the doorbell.”

“Nah, just the sound of me ramming that ass.”

“I want a divorce.”

“We’re not married sweetheart, too bad.”

“I swear I heard the door.”

“Priorities, little…”

 

She hears that part. She leaves the food on their doorstep.

La Virgen would be upset, too.


End file.
